


five times laura wishes for something different + one time she really doesn’t

by untiltheveryend



Series: another daisy chain [2]
Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Bittersweet, F/F, Five Plus One, and a helping of angst, and a mostly happy ending, theres a fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 15:34:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2657246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untiltheveryend/pseuds/untiltheveryend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘I’m sorry,’ Carmilla whispers. </p><p>It’s so quiet in the room.</p><p>Laura squeezes her eyes shut and shifts against Carmilla and mumbles, ‘I love you.’</p><p>Carmilla’s grip slackens and then tightens again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	five times laura wishes for something different + one time she really doesn’t

**Author's Note:**

> this is a little angsty but mostly not in the end. in a word, bittersweet. 
> 
> these characters are not my own.

1.

Laura wishes she knew what to say to Danny these days. She wishes that she could fix what they broke, but she is worried that it isn’t possible.

They don’t really talk to each other for a while after Danny sees Laura with Carmilla. There are times when Laura really wants to, but on the few occasions she manages to meet Danny’s eyes, they look empty enough to discourage her.

In the end, Laura bites the bullet and asks Danny to get coffee after class.

They end up on a cold metal bench, fingers wrapped around slightly-too-hot takeaway coffees, a careful six-to-eight inches of space between them. Laura figures she is going to be the one to break the silence, but Danny surprises her.

‘I don’t get it. I just don’t.’

Laura turns to look at Danny, tries to figure out what she can say that isn’t going to hurt them both.

‘I’m sorry,’ she tells her.

Danny laughs, but it doesn’t sound happy.

‘Sorry for what? The part where you broke my heart or the part where you stomped all over it?’

Laura winces. ‘Both, I guess.’

‘You should be. It sucked.’ Danny pauses, and her voice is small when she says, ‘You said it wasn’t about her. But obviously, it was.’

She’s looking at Laura now, which should feel like progress but instead it just makes her ache.

‘It wasn’t about Carm, Danny. Or at least, not the stuff with you. That was about us, okay?’

Danny turns away at that, and then she is standing, crumpling her empty cup in her hand.

‘It would almost be easier if it was about her,’ she says. Her words aren’t sharp as much as they are empty, and as she walks away everything feels fragile, like it could shatter with a single touch.

Laura wishes it wasn’t like this.

 

2.

She wakes up to a dark room, the sound of breaking glass the first thing she hears. It shocks her so badly, it takes a minute for her to realise she isn’t alone in her bed.

Carmilla seems so small, curled into herself, face pressed against Laura’s stomach. She always does that. Laura isn’t sure why.

She spreads gentle hands over Carmilla’s shoulders, feels the way she is shaking slightly and squeezes her own eyes shut against the way it makes her heart ache.

Laura is tempted to get up, turn on the lights and close the curtains, make herself a cup of cocoa. She used to do those things. But somehow, none of it helps as much as just holding Carmilla close and talking. 

She says the kind of things you say to screaming babies in the middle of the night, in the way that you say those things.

_Shhh, shhh, i’m here. Its alright. Shhh, shhhh. Everything’s alright._

Its a long while before the sounds outside their window fade to nothing. Long enough for Laura to get angry and then sad and then angry all over again. Long enough for tears to shine their way down her cheeks and then dry again. Long enough for Laura to wish it would be over already (she wishes that the moment that it starts).

She wishes it didn’t have to start at all.

Carmilla unfurls herself slowly, moving for the first time in probably hours. She fists her hand in Laura’s shirt, and Laura is so grateful that she almost cries again.

‘Hey. Hey,’ she says.

‘Sorry,’ Carmilla says, voice rough.

‘Don’t be,’ Laura murmurs.

She shifts so they are face to face, presses in close so their breath is all mingled. 

She wants to say more.

She wants so, so much. But she can’t find the words to say any of it.

 

3.

Her Dad calls her on a Tuesday afternoon, and Laura doesn’t have the heart to let it ring out, not after the last three times she did. 

He sounded so lost in the voicemails.

So she picks up, and he sounds so happy. He asks her what she has been up to, and she babbles about classes and makes vague references to hanging out with friends.

It isn’t a bad phone call, she’s endured much worse. But somehow his cheery tone does nothing but depress her while she lies through her teeth to keep him happy.

She doesn’t tell him anything these days, and it feels so strange, like the floor tilting sideways under her feet. 

She doesn’t tell him she is worried about her Lit grade because she is fighting with her Lit TA (or that before they were fighting they were almost certainly flirting). She doesn’t tell him about LaF because she knows he won’t understand and she hardly mentions Perry because saying Perry without following with LaFontaine makes her trip over her sentences.

She most definitely does not tell him about Carmilla, although her name is constantly trying to spill from Laura’s lips. 

She doesn’t tell him how happy-sad she is, or how everything about her life seems to have shifted. She doesn’t mention kisses or sharing beds or bickering. It hurts to have to hold so much back.

She does it, though. She laughs and teases and keeps everything so light it might as well float away.

And when she hangs up the phone, there are hot tears gathered in her eyes. 

She does not let them go.

 

4.

Carmilla keeps so much from her, she is sure. Even now, when they spend half their nights pressed close together in a too-small bed, there is so much she doesn’t know.

It drives her insane, the not-knowing, and equally as much, the not-asking. 

She talks about herself all the time. Tells stories about her Dad and her little cousins. She tells Carmilla about visiting her mothers grave. She tells Carmilla about her sixth birthday party, which is a story she never tells anyone. 

All she gets back is little slices. A few words, a wry smile.

It never quite feels like enough.

And she feels helplessly selfish for wanting more.

She wishes it was easier for them. That they could turn a corner from where they were to the place they want to be, without any of this messy-in-between-middle. 

There are times when happiness seems so far away.

She wonders if she is crazy to even dream of getting there.

 

5.

They fight a lot. Most of the time, it is about things that only hurt skin deep.

Other times- there is a lot they can say to hurt each other.

There is a lot they can say to hurt themselves.

‘You treat me like a child,’ Laura will say.

‘You are a child,’ Carmilla will rejoin. Her voice can be the thing that Laura likes best to hear. Other times it cuts her like a knife.

When they fight like that, it is never screaming. It is cold words in a silent room. Not even the pounding of her heart to soften their sting.

‘You don’t understand,’ Laura will tell her. ‘One day I’m going to be old. One day I am going to die.’

‘You think I don’t understand that?’ Carmilla will laugh. It won’t be beautiful.

‘I think you don’t plan on being around to see it,’ Laura will say.

It is the kind of fight that is full of pauses, not because of words left unsaid, but because sometimes you hurt so bad you can’t even speak. Like a sucker-punch to the gut.

‘You don’t _ever_ get to say that, Laura.’

Another pause.

Laura knows what happens next, knows that this is the part in the script where Carmilla walks through the door and she doesn’t see her for days.

That isn’t what happens.

Carmilla shuts herself in the bathroom.

The door slams shut behind her, and it sounds like nothing but regret.

 

(The fight always goes out of Laura so quick. She’s fast to get angry and faster to regret.

She’s so glad Carmilla didn’t leave this time.

Through the bathroom door, Laura hears the shower sputter to life.)

 

+1.

It’s at least half an hour before the door creaks open. Laura is in her pyjamas now, sitting with her legs crossed on top of her bedcovers. 

Carmilla pads across the room in her towel, head down. Laura concentrates on her fingers twisted together in her lap while Carmilla dresses. 

She wonders if Carmilla is going to walk out after all.

‘Hey,’ Carmilla says, startling Laura’s gaze upwards.

Her hair is wet from the shower, and she hasn’t bothered to put pants on. The sight of her makes Laura’s stomach twist, a feeling like _need_ or _want_ or _thank-god-she’s-a-little-bit-mine_. 

‘Mind if I-‘ Carmilla gestures half-heartedly at Laura’s still-made bed.

Laura nods, perhaps a tad too enthusiastic. 

Carmilla crosses the room, and then there is a moment where everything is tangled limbs and twisted sheets, before it all settles and they are curled up face to face. 

Neither of them say anything.

Carmilla is perhaps the most beautiful thing that Laura has ever seen. The soft stutter of her eyelashes as she blinks is hypnotising. 

Normally when they fight, Laura feels drained afterwards. This time, she feels full-full-full. She presses closer into Carmilla’s arms. Pushes her face into her chest, twines their legs together. Her heart aches in a way that craves closeness.

‘I’m sorry,’ Carmilla whispers. 

It’s so quiet in the room.

Laura squeezes her eyes shut and shifts against Carmilla and mumbles, ‘I love you.’

Carmilla’s grip slackens and then tightens again.

‘I love you too. If you didn’t already know.’

Laura lets Carmilla tilt her face away from her chest, takes a shaky breath, and then realises she is crying.

They fit their lips together, but it is less about kissing than it is about some unfathomable need to press themselves together again and again.

Laura wishes they could stay like that forever.

 

(It isn’t forever, but perhaps it is long enough).


End file.
